Classic Poem

There was a bower, form'd of the willow,
Whose pendant branches quietly sipp'd the stream
That murmur'd at its feet. Many a flower
Of new-born beauty grew with fragrance there,—
The rose, the jasmin, and the eglantine
Mixt their delicious sweets: the zephyrs flew
And caught them, while escaping from the buds,
To fan and seent the air. Nought lovelier
Have eyes beheld.—It chanc'd, one eye, what time
The feather'd tribe, to taste the soothing balm
Of sleep, to groves repair, and golden rays
Grow fainter where the sun has disappear'd,
That Venus came, the lucid coolness of
The bower to breathe, when every noise was hush'd.
Down on the flow'ry bank she stretch'd along,
Clad in the snowy robes that nature gave;—
Her beauteous bosom, soft as is the down
On a dove's breast, and fairer than the ray
Of midnight's lamp, glow'd with ecstatic fire,
And throbb'd with love's own rapture; then her eyes,
Of diamonds' blaze, shot their delightful rays
So languishingly sweet, that all seem'd heav'n
On which their brilliance fell; her pouting lips,
Like coral—O! what nectar glitter'd there,
Lit with the lustre of her own bright orbs!
The breezes fann'd her auburn locks about,
And twined themselves among her wanton tresses.
O! and her form! so exquisitely beautiful—
So ivory-turned, so fair, so smooth her skin,
That nature surely lent her cunning'st art
In forming what was lovely! I deem'd she slept,
When from her liquid eyes such lightning flash'd,
That, 's if by necromantic spell, I felt
The shaft of rapture pierce my heart, and,
Like the vernal blossoms scatter'd by the breeze
Of winter on the barren waste, my senses flew.